


fais-moi un bisou (ou deux)

by quidure



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidure/pseuds/quidure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire slides over to Enjolras, who sticks a hand out when Grantaire gets close. They tap their palms together twice in greeting, talking quietly afterwards for a brief moment in which Enjolras’ face wears a scowl and Grantaire mirrors with a sardonic smirk, and suddenly, Courfeyrac <i>gets</i> it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fais-moi un bisou (ou deux)

**Author's Note:**

> a oneshot belatedly reworked and re-inspired by tumblr user [prouvaireiant](http://www.prouvaireiant.tumblr.com)'s [lovely commentary](http://prouvaireiant.tumblr.com/post/86168488273/1-2-ok-ok-this-is-something-i-tried-to-write-but-it#notes) on an original idea of mine! 
> 
> please note that "bisou" is the french word for kiss and that it is used excessively in this fic! the title translates to "give me a kiss (or two)"

“Look.”

 

There are heavy hands — Grantaire’s — on Courfeyrac’s shoulders that steer his body to face the door. Courfeyrac pulls a face and lets himself be rotated on the couch, owl-craning his neck in an unsuccessful effort to draw answers from Grantaire’s expression. A poke from Grantaire prompts him to watch as Jehan hangs a jacket on the coat rack, Enjolras and Feuilly greet each other, and Combeferre pushes his glasses up his nose.

 

Courfeyrac’s pretty good at body language, and he’s pretty good at noticing the small stuff, so he tries to pick apart what he’s seeing.

 

There’s nothing to pick apart, really; it looks about the same as any of their get-togethers, but considering Grantaire has yet to say anything, Courfeyrac keeps watching.

 

Jehan and Combeferre get to huddling in over something on Combeferre’s phone, and Feuilly and Enjolras lean close kiss each other’s cheeks — no lingering, no hesitation — then separate to continue talking. They both seem to have their usual air and appearance about them. Frustratingly, it’s all very standard as far as greetings go, which gives Courfeyrac the feeling he’s missing something.

 

He hates it.

 

Squinting harder at the still-too-normal exchanges taking place by the door, Courfeyrac absently fixes his shirt collar and asks Grantaire, “What am I looking for, exactly? Did Enjolras do something different with his hair?”

 

Grantaire drops his hands from Courfeyrac’s shoulders, looking all too shocked that Courfeyrac didn’t immediately catch his point. “What? No.”

 

It’s frustrating, because this is apparently a 100% obvious thing, and Courfeyrac’s missing it.

 

“No, look again,” Grantaire continues, patiently nodding his head in the direction of Joly and Bossuet, who are just now entering Combeferre’s quaint apartment, toeing off shoes and sliding out of coats as they greet everyone in tandem.

 

Sensing this is an Enjolras-related issue, (because when isn’t it, as far as Grantaire is concerned?) Courfeyrac keeps his eyes trained on Enjolras, who goes through the motions of smiling and leaning in to exchange hellos with the new arrivals. Seeing nothing in front of him glaringly wrong, Courfeyrac is starting to get frustrated, so he takes to scrutinizing all 5’10” of Enjolras.

 

“His socks don’t match today,” Courfeyrac guesses, and it’s a weak guess at best, because Enjolras doesn’t often care to match his socks, nor would Grantaire be wasting the time to show that to Courfeyrac, who’s been Enjolras’ best friend since the beginnings of time.

 

“Yeah, I think he has trouble telling navy blue from black, which doesn’t surprise me because he looks like he dresses in the dark 90% of the time anyways, but that’s not the point.”

 

Figuring he’ll finally indulge Courfeyrac, who looks like he’s about to burst with anticipation, Grantaire tells him to look again and walks over to the doorway, where most everyone’s still standing around and talking.

 

Combeferre and Enjolras had been in the kitchen when Grantaire arrived, and so he hasn’t made it round to them yet, too busy at his perch on the couch from where he was trying to observe and get Courfeyrac to observe with him.

 

“Combeferre,” he says, catching the other man’s attention and meeting him halfway across the circle to place a hand on his arm, press his cheeks to each of Combeferre’s, kiss at the air, and ask how he’s doing.

 

Courfeyrac, watching from the couch, frustratedly notes that this is all very normal.

 

From there, Grantaire slides over to Enjolras, who sticks a hand out when Grantaire gets close. They tap their palms together twice in greeting, talking quietly afterwards for a brief moment in which Enjolras’ face wears a scowl and Grantaire mirrors with a sardonic smirk, and suddenly, Courfeyrac _gets_ it. He thinks Grantaire could have demonstrated his point in a more efficient way, because that was seriously the most agonizing process ever, but he gets it, so when Grantaire excuses himself to the kitchen to crack a bottle of something, Courfeyrac jumps up to follow.

 

Because that means having to part a sea of his friends, Courfeyrac uses the opportunity to subtly judge Enjolras’ expression on the way through. It looks like he’s thinking too hard about something or another, and Courfeyrac guesses it’s not the story Eponine’s telling about Gavroche’s latest misadventure. _Interesting_.

 

Grantaire’s already astride the counter, bottle in hand, by the time Courfeyrac steps in.

 

“Get it now?” he asks, holding the bottle out for Courfeyrac to take. The fact that Grantaire usually keeps good liquor on hand when he can swing the cost prompts Courfeyrac to nod, take the bottle, and tip back some wine.

 

“I’m pretty sure it would’ve been a thousand times easier to just say, ‘Hey, Courfeyrac, do you know why Enjolras doesn’t kiss my cheeks?’ rather than do all of that, but you know, I got it either way.”

 

Courfeyrac hops up onto the counter, passes the bottle back to Grantaire, who picks at the label to busy his hands while he talks.

 

“It’s not like I expected him to be one of those people who kisses everyone straight out of the gate, but we’ve known each other for practically ever now. Hell, Marius had been with Les Amis for a week and Enjolras went for the bisous. I just want to know why I’m the only person he’s not ridiculously fucking French with.”

 

This makes Courfeyrac want to gather Grantaire up in his arms and pet his poor, misguided little head. He sees the problem here — hell, could’ve solved it months ago if only Grantaire had come to him sooner. Alas, it’s never too late for Courfeyrac to work his magic, so he tugs the bottle from Grantaire’s hands to take another sip of wine before it disappears, and taps the counter thoughtfully.

 

“Might have something to do with the way you’ve never given him any reason to think you’re okay with the bisous,” Courfeyrac hedges, a shrug on his shoulders and a smile practically painting the corners of his mouth.

 

Grantaire at least has the sense to look stupefied as he tried to reconcile his hopeless, anything-but-subtle feelings for Enjolras with Enjolras thinking kissing his fucking cheeks in greeting wasn’t _consensual_.

 

Courfeyrac, unfazed, carries on. “Everyone else just goes for it, because that’s how things work. You, on the other hand, don’t do _shit_  without his permission unless you’re actively trying to piss him off, so you two are in this weird no-bisous limbo because neither of you know whether it’s okay or not.”

 

Any retort Grantaire may have is silenced when Bahorel marches into the kitchen to throw a boxed deck of cards at Grantaire’s chest and shout, “Poker in five, bitches. R’s deal. Bring your own booze.”

 

He sticks around just long enough to grab a stack of plastic cups before he’s backing out of the room and shouting to the next person. The moment having passed, Courfeyrac puts the wine down and claps Grantaire warmly on the back before sliding off the counter to make his own exit.

 

He pauses at the doorway.

 

“Just some food for thought, my friend,” he says, letting the words hang for a second before turning on a megawatt grin, which he enhances with a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and a popped collar. “Now, are we going to go clean those motherfuckers out, or what?”

 

R raises a toast to that and joins Courfeyrac, explanations resting carefully in the back of his mind for later.

 

“You do realize you look like you just stepped out of a bad 80s movie, right?” — Courfeyrac smacks him — “Okay, cool, I just had to make sure you knew before you faced all of our friends like that.”

 

•

 

The pot currently contains a number of poker chips and Euro coins, a keychain, and the keys to Bossuet and Joly’s ride home.

 

Everyone is in good humor — especially Cosette, who is systematically conning the rest of the group out of their every cent, despite the fact that it’ll go to a group fund later on. A number of cheeks are flushed with drink, and laughter is in no short supply as the card game takes a second seat to the camaraderie of simply spending time together, stories and jokes alike being traded over the cards.

 

Enjolras is feeling particularly comfortable, if a little warm from the lot of them cramping around his and Combeferre’s small card table and the few drinks he’s had. His focus isn’t so much on the game anymore as it is how pleased he is to be surrounded by his friends, but they’re all in the middle of a conversation, so he just puts down his cards to push his shirtsleeves up, then listens.

 

Feuilly’s telling some story about a run in with a customer, the cadence of his low, rough voice so soothing to Enjolras that he ends up dropping his head to Jehan’s shoulder, ready to doze off when a coo from Joly causes him to blink his eyes open.

 

“3 drinks later and he’s finally warmed up to us,” Joly giggles, before Bossuet bumps into his laughing boyfriend and tacks on, “Wonder how many it takes before he’s comfortable enough to get some.”

 

“Drunk consent isn’t consent,” Enjolras protests on instinct, and then, as the buzz fades back enough for him to catch up to what’s being said, he frowns and insists, “I’m comfortable with all of you. I’m a comfortable person. Right, Jehan?”

 

The hand attached to the shoulder he’s leaning on comes up to pat his head, and he can almost feel Jehan’s chuckle rather than see it. “Of course.”

 

Courfeyrac, because he’s one too many wine coolers deep to stop himself from meddling where he shouldn’t, interjects, “Nah, you’re not 100% there; you’re, like, selectively French. Me? Sure, we’re all about positive touching and shit. Grantaire? Not a bisou in sight. That girl in the club last week? I’m pretty sure you ran away before she got within the three meter mark.”

 

At that, everyone laughs, except Grantaire, who’s busy taking a long pull from his drink and staring at his cards, and Eponine, who’s keeping a careful eye on Grantaire. She breaks the moment by announcing that she’s going all in, slinging off her bra to throw into the pot because no one around her has anything left that she can reasonably swipe instead.

 

Enjolras, grateful for the distraction, folds and tucks himself into Jehan’s side, though if he casts a few sly glances Grantaire’s way before dozing off, it’s for him and only him to know.

 

•

 

It’s a few more hours and a 30 Rock mini-marathon before people start to trickle out, all pleading the need for their own beds or classes or responsibilities that need tending to. Sobered up, Enjolras takes to cleaning up their spread in between saying his goodnights. Eventually, the apartment is so quiet that he assumes everyone’s parted ways until Combeferre comes into the kitchen to help Enjolras bag up the leftover bread and pile the dishes into the dishwasher.

 

“Grantaire’s still on the couch,” Combeferre says off-handedly, in that quiet, factual way of his. “I can take care of him and the rest of this if you want to get to bed.”

 

Enjolras turns off the tap he’d been running over some butter knives. “No, no, I’ve got it. You have class in the morning.”

 

Grateful and too tired to insist upon divvying up the work, Combeferre slinks off to bed with his usual warm sincerity. After finishing the washing up, Enjolras pads to their living room and gives Grantaire’s shoulder a gentle shake.

 

“It’s nearly four. You can crash here, if you want, but Feuilly said you have work in the morning, so…” Enjolras trails off, at a loss for words in a way he usually isn’t.

 

Thankfully, Grantaire fills the gap for him, rolling over with a muttered, “Fuck.”

 

He scrubs a hand over his face before abruptly sitting up.

 

“Shit, fuck, did you say four? Sorry to tramp all over your hospitality, but I do have work in the morning and the bus doesn’t run a good line from here to there.”

 

At this point, he’s already up and tugging on his shoes, apologizing under his breath, while Enjolras watches. Grantaire shrugs into his coat and pats his pockets to make sure he’s got his phone and keys and wallet, then crosses to Enjolras, hand extended.

 

Feeling some rush of warmth and boldness hit him, Enjolras wraps his hand around Grantaire’s to pull him close.

 

“I don’t do this,” he says, just before his lips brush Grantaire’s couch-imprinted left cheek, “because I’m always afraid I’d be too tempted to do this.”

 

He drops the respective kiss to Grantaire’s right cheek, but then leans down to press ever-so-gently against Grantaire’s lips, warm and slightly chapped and everything Enjolras has ever wanted. When he leans back to gauge Grantaire’s response to what just happened, Grantaire looks stunned, so Enjolras just smiles and turns him to the door.

 

“I’ll come visit you tomorrow at work. Goodnight, Grantaire,” he says, ushering him out and into the warm summer night.

 

Grantaire’s off the landing before he turns back. “How long?”

 

It’s been long enough since he’s had a drink that Enjolras has no excuse for the red rising on his cheeks. “A long time, if we’re being fully honest.”

 

They meet halfway down the sidewalk to kiss under the glow of the streetlights, the quiet night giving way to soft exhales as they lace their fingers together through a gentle Parisian breeze.

 

**text to courfeyrac:**

You’re a certifiable ass.

**text to courfeyrac:**

But he kissed me so i’m buying you drinks for life thanks you’re a real pal xoxo  

 

**text from courfeyrac:**

yw for breaking my vow to never meddle in my friends’ relationships

**text from courfeyrac:**

but excellent u + me + corinthe friday if ur not too busy SMOOCHING MY BEST FRIEND

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks a million for reading! come say hello on [tumblr](http://valjeannes.tumblr.com)!


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